Are We Having Fun Yet?
by The Queen of Double Standards
Summary: This isn't a game, Mew. Stop reminding me of who I really am. I hate it. I hate you. Stop it. Leave me alone. I love you. I made a mistake. You were my mistake. This was inevitable. Hey, Mew, are we having fun yet?


**Are We Having Fun Yet?**

_This is how you remind me  
Of what I really am  
_-How You Remind Me by Avril Lavigne (cover)

She didn't even bat an eye the first time she saw me; me, standing there, caught red-handed, caught with his blood all over me, caught with a knife plunged deep inside his already still corpse. I didn't even notice her at first, as caught up as I was in mutilating that chiselled chest of his, that beautiful face, those strong arms, but when I did, I stared straight at her and froze. Her expression didn't change. She wasn't scared, wasn't horrified, didn't look like she was going to run. We stood there in silence for a moment, me straddling my beloved's decrepit body, she not giving away a single shred of emotion. Then, finally, she asked me.

"Did he really deserve that?"

And I stayed silent and stared at her. Then slowly, slowly, tears started filling my eyes, and I began to sob. It was obvious, wasn't it, that he didn't deserve it? I didn't know what had drawn me to do it, but the moment I'd realized that he didn't love me and never would, I hadn't been able to hold it back. I couldn't live in the same world as him anymore. I needed him dead. He by no means deserved it, though, and neither had the man before him, the girl before him, the boy before her, and all the others in between. I couldn't hold it back, though, when I realized how unloved I was, and I broke down each time. I broke down, broke them, broke into tears. What was different this time, though, was that she was here. Finally, someone would say it. They'd shout at me, tell me that I was insane, hand me over to authorities. Finally, someone knew who I really was, and they would let me be taken away to die.

Finally, someone would—

But I realized I was wrong before I could think anything else, because she strode forward to close the distance between us and crouched on the ground beside me. My crying slowed down then, and I stared into her eyes, but she was looking at _him_ instead. I averted my gaze then, afraid to see how she'd react. I looked back quickly when I noticed her movement. She was reaching over to tenderly touch his cheek, and I had to hold back the urge to vomit when I looked at that horrible mutilated face I'd create. She murmured, "Poor guy." I averted my gaze again; as much as I knew I needed someone to find this out, someone to final reveal my horridness, it still filled me with such shame to know that someone now knew what a terrible, sick person I was. "Poor girl, too. I can't imagine what he must've done to you for you to have gone to this extreme." I turned my head to her, alarmed by this reaction, but I could see she wasn't looking at me with the same tenderness she had him; still, that look wasn't cold, either. "Let's clean up this mess, shall we?"

I was shocked into silence again, but then my tears came back and I was sobbing once more. That was when our game began.

. . .

I was sitting on my beloved's couch, my knees tucked into my chest and a comforter drawn around me. I stared blankly at the electric fireplace, the firelight brightening the tearstains on my cheeks. My clothes were wet from the wine I'd spilt in my rush to my beloved's side; their dampness sent a chill through me, and I idly dreamt that the fireplace produced real heat while I waited for Mew and cried quietly. She didn't take too long to arrive, at least, but I couldn't bring myself to look at her. I only heard her footsteps, so I knew she was alone. I couldn't help feeling a little let down; I'd been hoping she'd actually hand me over this time. But, no, here she was like always, ready to clean up my mess, asking the same question she always did.

"Did she really deserve it?"

Desolate and silent, I watched her from my peripherals as she closed the door behind her and made her way to the kitchen table, where I'd left her an easy clean-up. My beloved's face had fallen face-first into a plate of chocolate cake. Her heart wasn't beating anymore, but at least her face was still smiling, though I was honestly disconcerted by that cheerful expression on a corpse.

"What did she do this time?"

"She said she loved me, but her eyes didn't say it."

"I see." She was running her fingers along the body now, looking for some sort of wound. When she didn't find any, her lips pursed. I'd spent so much time with her by now that I knew that without looking. I tucked my chin against my chest and closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against my knees. This was sick, twisted. How could she just let me do this? Why didn't she hand me over? "No physical damage that I can see. Did you suffocate her?"

I wanted to throw up. How could she ask that so calmly? Still, who was I to judge? That body lying dead was my doing. "No."

She cocked her head to the side, pursed her lips further, and wondered, "Expert blow to the head?" I could feel her gaze on me, so I simply shook my head this time. "Crap. Gimme a bit." I could hear the rustling of clothes, so I lifted my head to look toward her. She'd lifted my beloved's shirt up and off and was working at the bottoms now. I looked swiftly away. Sure, my beloved was dead, but I'd still never been given permission to see such sights. Mew was looking for wounds, but she wouldn't find any. "What the hell did you do here, Mayu?"

"Are you having fun, Mew?" My voice was almost a growl, and the annoyance that prickled Mew's skin was nearly palpable. I was too frightened to look at her; Mew, when angry, might have been even more frightening than myself.

Cold, level, she spoke. "Don't make me out to be the bad guy here, Mayu. I'm just cleaned up the mess you made."

She was right, so I couldn't argue with her. Spitefully, though, I could ruin her fun, so I informed her, "I ground up an overdose of pills in her dinner."

I could tell she was mad at me by the silence that continued for the rest of the night as she moved the body to the bed and placed the bottle I'd left on the kitchen counter on the bedside table. She tidied the place, avoiding leaving anything incriminating, and left without me. I stayed there until morning, dreading the next time I'd see Mew again. Not because she was evidently mad, though; I hated seeing Mew because she was only around when my beloved was dead.

. . .

The next time I saw Mew, I was in her apartment as she arrived home. She wasn't surprised despite never having told me where she lived; she wore that bored expression that only ever disappeared when she was trying to figure out how I'd killed my latest love. She dropped her purse on the couch and kicked off her shoes; at no point did she bother acknowledging my presence. My hands were covered in blood. Did she notice? Of course she did. Mew, for whatever reason, felt no disturbance from these sorts of things; rather, they seemed to give her some sort of sick thrill that I knew I shouldn't have any right to judge or be sickened by.

"Did they really deserve it?"

Her automatic question sounded in the silence as I delicately touched my bloodied fingertip to the white fringe of my dress, marvelling at how easily lace could stain. I murmured quietly, "I'm not sure this time."

I had been nearly a year since I'd last seen Mew, nearly a year since I'd fallen in love once more. Mew looked to me with a touch of curiosity, trying to decode my words. I could feel her watching each and every muscle on my face as I spoke, trying to decode the emotions I was feeling. As she always did, she began a stream of simple questions, reading my face for my answers rather than waiting for me to speak them.

"Was it a girl? No, a boy then. No, not a boy. A man. Older then? A teacher? Your doctor? A stranger? Yes, a stranger. You probably met – at work? No – at the grocery store? No – you ran into him by chance on the street – you weren't paying attention and crashed into him – he was sweet to you – you fell in love instantly – but he didn't feel the same. Wait, he did? I see. But then time went on and you loved him more – no?" She was thrown off by how different it was from the usual situation; I kept my teary eyes averted. "Well then, you got in a fight. No? He . . . he was disloyal? No? You stopped loving him? No?" She was growing more curious and more frustrated, but I knew she didn't want me to tell her what happened. My red was the only vibrant colour in her monochrome life. "You hated him. No. You, he, he hated _you_. No? Really?" I couldn't even flinch at the way she said that last part. "Goddamnit. Bring me there, Mayu." I didn't response. "Come on, Mayu, let's go." She was irritated.

But I didn't want to bring her there, to him, he who was so perfect. My beloved, who now lay dead on my kitchen floor. It was a simple death this time, one I'd made as swift and painless as I could in my panic. When I remembered that hurt look in his gaze, that look that still loved me, as I'd pinned him to the ground and thrust that knife through his chest, I couldn't help but start sobbing. This wasn't fair. Why was it he, he out of everyone, of whom she tortured me with her horrid inaccuracies? I just needed her to clean in up. I needed it to be done. Why, _why_, was she allowed to have so much fun with this? It wasn't fun. It was sick; it was disgusting; it was painful; it was torturous; it was everything I wish I could just finally be free of, that I'd almost been freed of.

Mew took my hand, drawing me out of my reverie, but it had the opposite effect as I'd hoped. Rather than be repulsed that this disturbed girl was touching me, I could feel my heart swaying already. I looked up at her, and I knew she saw it in my eyes, and I swear I saw excitement there. Maybe that's why her lips reddened a little, why her pupils dilated, and why my sobbing was quieting as I looked at her. Maybe that's why she put on that seductively devilish smile and softly prompted, "Let's go check it out, Mayu, and then you can come back here and stay with me from now on, okay?"

I was a creature dependent on love. I lived and breathed for nothing else. Mew knew that. She knew I'd fall in love with her. She knew I'd kill her if she didn't feel the same for me. She was so smart, so very, very smart.

. . .

Mew was still trying to figure it out a month later, why it was I'd killed him, and a month later, I was long gone from that love. It was her, Mew, who'd captivated me now. I lived with her, but I wasn't hers and she wasn't mine. She brought girls back to the apartment all the time, but as soon as they were gone, she'd trick me back into serenity with those seductive eyes that promised love for me. She never said she loved me, even after I told her that I did her, but she left it implicit, and that was enough to keep me satisfied.

It was treacherous that I'd had to kill him but never her; she, after all, was the first one I'd given my heart to who didn't deserve it. He'd deserved it; he'd deserved better, in fact. And he'd loved me, so kindly, so sweetly, right up until his final breath and beyond. I'd been scared, panicked, because I'd come back to him on the phone with another woman. I was afraid of him being disloyal. I was afraid of him not loving me. I was afraid of my heart breaking and the desire rising to break each and every one of his bones. When that surfaced, I'd started crying. He'd panicked and ran toward me, but I'd screamed and pushed him away.

"Get away from me!" I'd shouted, desperately trying to remember my love for him. "I'll kill you if you don't! Please, stay away from me!" But he hugged me tightly, not understanding that it wasn't an expression, that I'd actually kill him. I was lashing out violently, unable to reach the syringe I'd taken to keeping in the folds of my dress. He was holding me too tightly, and he told me that he loved me and to calm down. I froze when I felt that sincerity in his voice and started to melt. I broke into sobs, knowing that, for the safety of that man who truly loved me, I had to leave him.

I'd planned on leaving that night, but he'd caught me packing my things and questioned me. I'd fallen silent, refusing to answer his questions, and he'd grabbed me by my shoulders and forced me to face him. He'd forced me to tell him, tell him why I was leaving him, him who loved me, and I'd told him. I'd told him that I'd killed them, all those who hadn't loved me, that I might kill him one day, and he'd hugged me tightly and said that I needn't worry about that because there'd never be a moment of my life that he wouldn't love me.

I'd killed him the next day, when self-preservation had kicked in. He'd known my secret then, and he could tell someone at any moment. So I'd killed the man I'd loved, the one who'd loved me, because I didn't want to die myself. And then I'd come to love her, that wicked girl who found my love to be the most enjoyable of games.

I was sitting on her couch, waiting for her to get home. I was getting antsy after remembering him. The gun in my hand gleamed in the dim light she'd left me in. I truly hated this girl, she who made me feel like she loved me but never said it. After her, I was done. I was ready to end this all.

She came in the door and stared at my gun with a slight smile. "So it's finally come to this, Mayu?"

I felt that shimmer go through me as it always did, and I smile crept onto my lips. I wasn't me anymore. I smiled at her and gave my head a small shake, holding the un by the barrel and offering her the hilt. "No, Mew. I want you to kill me."

Her smile fell, her disappointment nearly palpable. "What are you talking about?"

"You never loved me even a little," I informed her. "You want to die, but you're too scared to do it. You knew I'd kill you eventually; you're gorgeous, after all, so how could I not fall for you? But I'm not going to kill you, Mew, because you're you. It's much worse for me to let you live."

Mew narrowed her eyes at me and threatened, "I'll tell the police what you did."

"Or you can kill me so that you can be on death row and die since I refuse to kill you," I responded, keeping the gun loose in my hand so that she could grab it at any point. She looked a little alarmed; she'd noticed the insanity in my gaze, then. She'd never really understood it, had she, that I truly was crazy? The poor girl. I couldn't help smiling at that. "It's a game, Mew, like you've always wanted. If you don't kill me yourself, one of three traps I've set up in here is going to kill me, and you'll never know which. I know that not knowing which it was will torment you, so kill me now so that you'll know exactly what it was that brought my death. Clock's ticking though, Mew, so you'd better go quick."

Without missing a beat, she wondered, "Do I really deserve this?"

And, promptly, I responded, "Yes. Now kill me."

Begrudgingly, she took the gun from me, but I wasn't as cruel as she thought. I loved her, after all, even if she didn't love me, so I wanted to give her what she wanted.

What she hadn't noticed was that our gas stovetop had been spewing out gas since she'd forgotten to turn it off this morning. So when she stared at me with that gun pointed at my head, when she wussed out and shot to the side, both our deaths were guaranteed. The last thing I heard before I was reunited with the one who loved me was the sound of her scream in the explosion as I wondered, "So, are we having fun yet, Mew?"


End file.
